


Scorpion grass

by Tyranno



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, drug induced amnesia, i cant believe he forgot a whole-ass husband
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: Shiro's mind has been greatly affected by his time with the Galra. The drugs they used affected his mind more than his body, leading to trauma and large holes in his memory.But Shiro's sure he would never forget something important.Or someone.





	Scorpion grass

**Author's Note:**

> "Scorpion grass" is another name for Forget Me Nots. I thought "forget me not" as a title was a bit too on the nose. 
> 
> Anyway this is one of those fics that was lying in my drafts waiting about 3 months for me to write the final scene,which i have finally done. enjoy.

Not all of Shiro’s dreams were nightmares.

Occasionally, a different, more welcome type came. They were odd and fragmented, like pieces of stained glass window that, no matter how many he collected, did not fit together. They were parts—a smell, a sight, a feeling—of something he had forgotten.

He dreamed of warm sheets. A half-eaten, peeled orange that stained his nails. A trashy, old pop song and a tuneless voice that sung along with it, and though he feels like he follows the words when he dreams, when he’s awake he can remember none of them.

If Shiro tried to hold on to them they slipped away, like fish in a stream. If he lay in bed and thought hard about them, trying to pull another one out of the fog of his memory, the best he would get was a dreamless sleep.

When he was overly tired, when he was stressed, sometimes they made it through the nightmares to comfort him. The taste of heavily frosted cake. The pressure of a tight jacket. Somebody’s laugh, snorting and muffled, but with feeling.

His own mouth, forming words: “ _I love you—_ ”

Shiro woke up from this one with a cold feeling in his stomach. Who? Who did he love? He tried to think but came up with nothing. A few connected feelings—a kiss on his forehead, a hand in his—but no face, no name.

The holes in his memory were huge and scattered, but worst of all they were invisible. He had no idea how much he had forgotten or what it was about. When he heard Lance and Hunk joke about how much they’d studied for exams when they weren’t even going to graduate now—it shocked him. Shiro didn’t remember taking any exams. Logically, he must have, but they had been wiped clean from his head.

He wanted to ask, but at the same time he couldn’t. He needed the rest of the crew to trust him and he needed to appear as a stable, collected leader. By revealing his memory loss he might lose their trust in him. Besides—Shiro had always been a private person so unless it had been a big affair they may not have even known.

 _I love you, I love you_. Shiro repeated the words to himself in the dark. He slept and dreamed of unconnected things: bird song through an open window, wearing two pairs of socks on a cold day, the relief of a passing grade.

Earth did not feature much in his thoughts. He missed it, of course, and he had many friends there—but no family, nobody who couldn’t do without him. But now that might not be true. Who was he missing? Had he left someone down there who was thinking of him when he couldn’t even picture them?

 

*

 

“Shiro will you at least think about it?” Lance asked, curving around a battleship. The lion peppers the ship’s broad side with fire.

“Hunk, pay attention to your flank,” Shiro said, swinging the black lion around to fire at the oncoming wave. The dark of space lit up in blooms of orange. Hunk said nothing but followed orders, spinning his lion and firing in an arc that shed his following. He put on a burst of speed and caught up with the rest of Voltron.

“I don’t really see how it would help anybody,” Shiro said at last, taking out a few of the stragglers.

“It would help me!” Lance said, “You’re the best wingman a guy could hope for. You just saunter up, get them talking and introduce me as your best fighter and blam! I make my move.”

If it was captain-like, Shiro would have grumbled. Instead he sighed.

“Look, if it’s me ruining your game you’re worried about, don’t worry,” Lance said, “I’ll be your wingman too!”

Pidge slammed on her breaks, “Lance, knock it off! Shiro’s married.”

Shiro’s heart dropped like a stone. Married?

“Sorry,” Lance said sheepishly, “Forget I said anything. I’ll ask Coran or something.”

“Coran?” Hunk asked, “What about me?”

“You get too distracted!” Lance said, “You just end up deep in conversation and never make a cue!”

“Well, they’re interesting to talk to!” Hunk said.

Shiro forced himself out of the daze he’d fallen into, shaking his head lightly. He checked the monitors. “That’s all the ships taken out,” Shiro said, “We should head back to the Castle. We have time for a short break before we go down to greet the locals.”

The lions returned to the castle and the paladins filtered away. They didn’t set a time to come back as Coran probably wouldn’t have stuck to one anyway.

Shiro’s head felt heavy and stuffed. Every sound was muffled and distant. His heart beat rapidly. Married. Not just in love, married. He had had a spouse at some point. Now he had just forgotten them, as easily as he forgot dreams. Cold spread through his chest.

Shiro caught up with Lance in the cafeteria. “Lance, about what Pidge said—”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Lance said, shovelling food goo in his mouth, “It won’t happen again. I know it must be really hard to be separated, I must have brought up a lot of bad feelings. I guess I just forgot.”

Shiro wanted to scream. _Who is it? Who?!_ His hands clenched into fists. It must have shown on his face because Lance shied away. He couldn’t bring himself to ask. It would sound callous. Shiro turned on his heel and stormed out.

He heard Hunk set his bowl down. “It’s okay, Lance,” he said, “everybody forgets stuff sometimes.”

 

*

 

Shiro thought of marriage, late at night.

His mind plucked shards of memories for him. Soft white rose petals, so fresh they were slightly damp. A reflection of himself in a large mirror, nervous as he watched himself style and restyle his dark hair. A feeling in his chest that was so wonderful and welcome, like he was filled with light.

Shiro slept and tried to hold on to them, tried to keep them close, but like dew in the morning light they faded and he was left only with impressions of them, memories of memories.

 

*

 

When he dreamed again, it was not pleasant.

He remembered sitting with his back pressed against cold concrete, a spreading stiffness in the base of his spine. His hands were fused together, trapped in a thick layer of icy metal. He could feel his shoulders start to tense up and he knew with a twinge of dread he wouldn’t be sleeping again that night. He had already barely escaped the jaws of a monster in the arena barely hours ago—he didn’t fancy his chances sleepless, hungry and stiff.

Shiro knew, while he dreamed, that this was relatively early in his time in the arena. They hadn’t moved him into his own cell yet, instead leaving him with all of the low-level fighters and arena fodder. He was bound, but unescorted.

On the other side of the bars, the guard stood like a statue. Shiro wondered if it was an actual Galra guard, or one of the robots.

The hallway light glowed faintly purple, illuminating the sleeping forms of the prisoners around Shiro. A few, like him, had given up on sleep and sat up. One was even doing press-ups, perhaps to calm nerves.

Nobody spoke. Even those who wept did it in complete silence.

 

*

 

Pidge could feel their unease before she even reached them.

She had gone to get the three of them drinks—which, on an alien planet, was a lot harder than it ought to be. Finding something they could digest safely was a lot of smelling things, tasting tiny pieces before giving up and hoping for the best.

In her absence something had spooked Hunk and Lance. They shifted nervously from foot to foot, glancing around.

“What is it?” Pidge asked, passing the drinks around. Hunk accepted the drink and immediately downed it.

Lance scratched the back of his neck, “I think Shiro is flirting with someone.”

Pidge followed his gaze to one of the many bars. Shiro was sitting with a tall, statuesque alien and the both of them are deep in conversation. Shiro’s ears were a little pink, and he was laughing a little too much. The alien’s long claws rested over his hands.

“We didn’t really know if we should go over there,” Hunk said, “They could just be talking and not actually...”

Flirting. A fire kicked up in Pidge’s chest. She shoved her drink at Hunk who barely had time to catch it before she stormed across the dance floor and snatched Shiro’s arm.

“Will you excuse us, please?” Pidge asked the tall alien, but it didn’t sound like a question and she didn’t wait for an answer, yanking Shiro to his feet.

She dragged the black paladin into one of the deep alcoves that lined the walls. Her face was already hot and her eyes sharp when she let him go.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Pidge snarled, hands curling into fists, “I thought you of all people wouldn’t give up on him—Were you lying when you said you thought he was still alive? Was—was it _all_ a lie?!”

“What are you talking about?” Shiro asked, bewildered.

“That!” Pidge pointed at the tall alien across the room, “Flirting!! While Matt is still missing!”

“Matt?” Shiro asked.

“Yes, Matt!” Pidge snarled, hot, angry tears streaking down her face, “Your husband!”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Shiro muttered, “and I-I didn’t know...”

“Didn’t know?!” Pidge snapped. “How the quiznak—”

“Pidge, calm down,” Shiro said, “I’ll explain myself but we can’t make a scene.”

Pidge glanced around. Various aliens were watching, attention drawn by the shouting. She dried her tears on the back of her hand, but looked no less furious.

“When I was a prisoner of the Galra...” Shiro took a deep breath, steeling himself, “They… didn’t treat us very well. They used to drug us a lot. They’d spike our food with stimulants to bring out aggression before a match, and when it was done they’d dart us with sedatives afterwards. None of them were designed for human use.”

Pidge’s gaze was still hot but she waited patiently, crossing her arms.

“I came out of it much better than some prisoners did, but… There’s a lot I don’t remember anymore. Not just my time in prison, but before that as well. A lot of my memories of the Garrison and even before that are just… gone.”

“So… you don’t remember him,” Pidge asked.

“I do,” Shiro insisted, “I remember Matt. I remember him being my best friend.”

Pidge frowned, “But you don’t remember him being more than that? You don’t remember marrying him?”

Shiro opened his mouth and closed it. It was hard to explain… he remembered loving, he remembered being loved, but not a who, not a when. What he’d felt for Matt, what he still felt, was strange and unnamed but powerful. He’d wanted Matt to be happy, to be healthy, but had he ever allowed himself to want Matt for himself? Shiro shook his head.

“What else have you forgotten?” Pidge asked.

“Most of my time at the Garrison… I don’t remember much of my childhood either, but I don’t think that was much of a happy time from what memories I’ve retained,” Shiro scratched the back of his neck. “I remember being at school, but not what I studied or who I met there. Most of what I do remember is fragmented. It’s hard to sort out.”

All of the anger went out of Pidge. “I’m sorry, Shiro. I should’ve known you’d never do something like cheat on my brother,” She sighed, unfolding her arms, “I know you might want to keep some stuff to yourself, but… You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Shiro nodded, but he doubted he would follow up on her offer. Not least because he didn’t even know what he’d say if he did.

 

*

 

Matthew Holt.

Shiro held his data pad up, staring into the glowing face of his ex-crew member. Pidge had scanned his photo onto the Castle’s files and the man stared back at him blankly. He had one arm around his sister’s shoulders and the other resting at his hip. They both smiled.

Matt looked young. He always had. His whole family had slim shoulders and a small build, but Matt had his mother’s big eyes and his father’s thick, curling hair that meant that, at first glance, he looked like a teenager. Matthew was the kind of guy that got carded wherever he went to drink, and even if he did show his ID, they wouldn’t serve him anyway.

Shiro didn’t remember meeting him. Part of him wanted to ask Pidge what she knew about the two of them, but at the same time he wanted to try remembering on his own.

With a click, the data pad turned off. He set it carefully beside his bed and stretched out with a sigh. When the lights were low, it was hard to distinguish his new room from his old one. In the Garrison he’d kept a sparse room, the only signs of life being the piles of textbooks and the chest of draws filled with neatly folded clothes.

Matthew hadn’t really liked Shiro’s room at the Garrison. Too lifeless, he’d said. Following his unspoken request, Shiro had bought a few posters of nebulae and constellations and a space calendar. He also bought a cork board for pinning photos to, but found he had no photos to pin to it. When he mentioned it, Matt had gotten a second copy of his ID photo and pinned it to the board. _So you don’t forget what I look like when your nose is buried in your books_ , Matt had said.

Shiro stared up into the dark.

Matt was young. He was maybe a year younger than Shiro was, give or take a few months. Marriage was a big commitment—not one Shiro would have gone into easily, not with what his parent’s marriage had devolved into, and Matt might be excitable but he wasn’t stupid or reckless. They must have been sure.

Shiro closed his eyes and dreamed of nothing.

 

*

They flew past a crab nebula. The tendrils of green-orange crossed over a heart of warm blue and looked almost organic. It was like a cut in the universe’s deep black skin, a hint at the strange, godly flesh underneath.

The crew gathered on the flight deck, not wanting to be too far from the controls in case the Galra fleet they’d lost caught back up with them. Allura ate, leaning against her podium.

“Matt would love this,” Shiro muttered, leaning back on the stairs.

Pidge stretched out next to him, glasses reflecting the nebula. “Yeah. He would.”

 

*

 

A few weeks later, a memory came in Shiro’s dream.

A full, whole one.

He was lying in his Garrison room, curled around Matt. The covers were pushed to the bottom of the bed and the room was warm and quiet. Morning light filtered like molten gold through the slits in the blinds.

Matt’s legs were wrapped around Shiro’s hips, his thighs resting on Shiro’s thighs. Matt’s glasses were folded on the bedside and he squinted down at Shiro, head half-buried in the pillow.

Shiro ran two fingers across Matt’s thigh, tracing a line of numbers. They were ever so slightly raised, not quite healed all the way. “I didn’t know we were allowed to get tattoos.”

“We aren’t,” Matt said, voice barely above a whisper, “I had to wait until they’d released the official names of the crew, then I got it done. They weren’t very happy with it, but they’d need a bigger reason to kick me than that. Besides, I thought between the knees and hips were a good place to get one, it’s much less likely that any photographers that jump me are going to get it.”

“Oh, so you’re not going to make a nudist calendar after all?” Shiro tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, “What are we going to do now if our funding falls through?”

“I don’t think you’d like it if half of America got to see my goods,” Matt said.

“They wouldn’t get to,” Shiro said, shuffling closer, “I’d buy all the copies.”

“If you had that much money, why wouldn’t you just fund the mission directly?”

“What, and miss out on owning thirty thousand nude photos of you?”

Matt grinned, flushed, “What would you even do with thirty thousand pictures of me?”

Shiro hummed, tilting his head from side to side, “Wallpaper.”

Matt laughed and Shiro felt the rumble of his chest through his hands.

“What even is it?” Shiro asked, running his thumb over the numbers, “Coordinates? To Kerberos?”

“Oh, that would have been a better idea,” Matt said, “but no.”

Shiro ran a finger across the inside of Matt’s thigh and the man shivered slightly at the touch. There was a dot on the inside of his thigh, which presumably marked the start of the chain. Except… The numbers started _3.14159…_

“It’s Pi,” Shiro said, flatly.

Matt grinned, “Correct! Do you like it?”

“It’s...” Shiro shrugged, “Very you.”

Matt burst out laughing, “Wow! Very me… is that supposed to be a back-handed compliment or something?”

Shiro laughed, “Shut up.” He leaned in and kissed him.

 

*

 

It was morning, or whatever passed for morning on a planet that was too far from any sun to have proper days. A slightly crisp, deep grey dust covered the broad, sloping hills of the planet, crunching like snow underfoot. The sky was filled with the curve of a huge, ruined moon. It was much too cold to be walking around without a full suit on, so Shiro didn’t get the benefit of a breath of fresh air, but he appreciated the change of scenery.

Shiro stooped and picked up the large crate left on the hill. It was the last one the rebels had left for them, and the indents of all the others in the dust would soon be erased by the freezing, howling winds. He hefted it onto his hip and scanned the horizon.

Near the skyline, gigantic monoliths rose from the dust, smoothed to fang-shaped prongs. They curved into the distance like ribs and even though they were far away, Shiro could tell they were larger than any skyscraper or mountain back on Earth.

It was strange, how easy it was to forget just how far away from home he was. The years in the arena, the sight of Voltron, the hundreds of aliens he’d met, fought and saved—all of it should have ground the idea into him. But instead, he was left in renewed awe as he watched chunks of rock detach themselves from a rotting moon low in the sky, blotting out constellations that were so unfamiliar.

“You alright there, Shiro?”

Shiro spun around.

Pidge took a few steps back. “Sorry,” She said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro said, “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

 

*

 

Pidge brought him back.

Of course she did—he’d never really doubted her. Worried about it, yes, but Shiro worried that the sun would come up in the morning.

Matthew stood next to his little sister, staring around. A scar curved across one cheekbone and his hair had flattened a little. He had put on about another head of height and his shoulders had broadened. He wore a rebel’s uniform—which amounted to anything he could cobble together, a breastplate and thick robes, decorated with colourful but amateurish stitches.

Seeing him again was like seeing a phantom. He couldn’t help but stare. Shiro’s heart beat wildly but he was frozen. Despite everything, Matt still looked boyish. A stab of tenderness cut into this chest, like swallowed glass.

Matt noticed him, and he saw what he felt reflected back. Matt’s eyes widened and he smiled, half-jogging over.

“Takeshi… it’s not like you to gawp,” Matt said, staring up at him.

Shiro was almost overcome by affection. Part of him wanted to scoop Matt into his arms, but part of him was so overwhelmed it wanted him to back off. “Matt...” Shiro whispered.

“It’s okay,” Matt said, gently, “Pidge told me about your memory problems on the way over.”

Shiro made a noise like he was in pain and squeezed his eyes shut. He pulled Matt closer, pressing their foreheads together. He breathed deeply, chest shuddering.

Matt wrapped his arms around Shiro’s waist, “You okay there, Starshine?”

“Matt...” Shiro breathed, his eyes opening a sliver. They were wet and shining with tears, sticking his long lashes together, “God I… I missed you.”

“Still love me then?” Matt asked, grinning. He nuzzled his husband affectionately.

“Yes,” Shiro said, firmly. He pulled away, pressing a hand to his damp eyes, “I’ve just got to…” He waved a hand absently.

“Right,” Matt said, taking a step back, “Probably not the best to make the captain cry.”

Pidge laughed, “Not on the bridge, at least.”

 

*

 

In the close cocoon of altean sheets, Shiro rested with his head in Matt’s shoulder. Soft, cushioned fabric pushed in on all sides, fresh smelling, and clean. Matt’s hands had pushed under his shirt to wrap his arms around Shiro’s ribs. Warmth radiated from where the two were pressed together.

Matt’s presence sparked more memories to slip to the forefront of his mind. The press of lips on a forehead, a peck on the cheek, a passionate embrace. A kiss, a kiss, a kiss.

More than that, the warm, welcome feeling enveloped him completely. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

His heart sung. It remembered what his mind did not.


End file.
